


The Power of Poetry

by Dekk, Telcontarian



Category: Labyrinth (1986)
Genre: Adult Sarah Williams (Labyrinth), F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:48:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27086605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dekk/pseuds/Dekk, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Telcontarian/pseuds/Telcontarian
Summary: As per a dare from telcontarian in LFFL.  The dare was to write a love story or sonnet to the Bulge.  I decided that might be something that an English major Sarah would do when drunk.  And thus my first one shot was penned.  I am not sure the iambic pentameter is accurate and it's important to note that this is a Petrarchan sonnet so it will differ from Shakespeare's sort.And then we got to messaging and it seemed that a partnership was in order.  And for those who wanted to know more, be careful what you wish for.
Relationships: Jareth & Sarah Williams
Comments: 9
Kudos: 18





	1. The Bulge: A Sonnet

**Author's Note:**

> Labyrinth is the property of it's owners...I own nothing, not even the Bulge. I just took the characters about 10 years past the story.

Sarah slumped over her desk as her eyes creaked open. A brief memory of multiple rye and cokes but no water or food pounded into her temples. She wiped the drool off her cheek and noticed a piece of lined paper with 14 unsteady lines:

O Mighty Bulge, flaccid yet grand in size,  
Cradled to hide in tight pantaloons prized  
My thoughts dwell on this nemesis of mine,  
I work so to blue the hallowed balls twine.  
The girth of this tempting unseen bed snake  
Is such that my slick, lace panties do shake.  
I quiver but stay quite firm to my task,  
I will not budge, I’ll neither beg nor ask.

Yet I find myself longing to kiss it,  
To see it’s fair tip so anointed.  
My secret desire is the length to lick  
Thus harden and grow such a mighty prick.  
Ah but to cause said Bulge a monstrous spurt  
As my own depths excite and squeeze and squirt!

Good grief...she’d sunk to a new low. Drunk sonneting had to be on her list of things never to do before you die. Re-reading the sestet, she decided that she could kill two birds with one stone by taking a shower. Walking a little unsteadily out of the room, she failed to see a greenish hand snatch her poetry followed by a ripple in her mirror. If she had noticed, she might have tried to stop the goblin from delivering what would be a mighty ego stroke to the Goblin King.


	2. The Ballad of the Bulge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jareth feels it necessary to react to the sonnet with a poem of genius and taste.

Jareth tapped his boot with a riding crop. He frowned. He tapped his boot again. He sat forward and picked up the quill. He frowned again. 

He glanced at a well worn piece of lined paper from The World Above. He saw the lips in his mind: her brightly painted lips parted on a wordless sigh as her tongue ran along her bottom lip in a caress; her perfect teeth briefly pulling at that same lip as her dark head bent over his lap. She freed his Bulge from its cloth prison and…

Bogdammit, that sonnet was driving him crazy. It deserved a response. Sarah deserved a response. But Jareth was fairly certain that despite the highly suggestive wording of her poetic efforts, she wasn’t quite ready for a tumble beneath silken sheets. Pity.

His eyes strayed to the empty parchment on his desk; his own poetic efforts non-existent at the moment. He picked up his crop and tapped his boot. Again.

As he stared at his bookshelf looking for inspiration, his eyes focused on a leather bound tome with its gold filigree embossed upon the cover cracking with age and his eyes shone with silent laughter. Oh… this would be perfect. She would be absolutely infuriated… then titillated. Hopefully.

***

Sarah put her books away, massaging her temple and rolling her shoulders in an attempt to chase away the beginning of a migraine that was beginning to shoot arcs of lightning in her left temple. There was no point in studying any more, she either knew the content or she didn’t.

She stood up to stretch her arms but before she finished, her eyes landed on a roll of parchment on her couch sitting next to a… sponge? In the shape of a peach?

It seemed as though the Goblin King had stolen her poem after all, she hadn’t even had to wish it away. 

She shouldn’t read it, she certainly didn’t want to encourage him. It would undoubtedly be the work of an extraordinary ego, but she wanted to know. Did he write a poem for her in return? Why the sponge? She certainly was not going to call him up to ask him. Did they even have phones in The World Below?

Sarah picked up the rolled up parchment, admiring the indent of his pendant pressed into the centre of the wax seal before breaking it. She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath before opening them once more and beginning to read:

The Ballad of the Bulge

She walks in beauty, like the night  
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;  
And all that’s best of dark and bright  
Meet in her aspect and her eyes;  
Thus mellowed to that tender light  
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,  
Had half impaired the nameless grace  
Which waves in every raven tress,  
Or softly lightens o’er her face;  
Where thoughts serenely sweet express,  
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,  
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,  
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,  
But tell of days in goodness spent,  
A mind at peace with all below,  
A heart whose love is innocent!

Sarah’s eyes widened. “You rotten cheat!” She read through the part about cloudless climes and her aspect and her eyes. “I am most certainly not at peace with all below, you glittery twit!”

And he hadn’t even explained the stupid sponge. She lifted it to throw it at something breakable then realized that it was heavier than a sponge should be, as if there was something concealed inside it. The soft scent of peaches filled the air as she twisted the bathing implement in her hands, only to discover it wasn’t exactly meant for bathing. 

Sarah’s pupils widened as she realized that Jareth may have guessed her favourite water activity. She was torn; she didn’t want to encourage the jerk but she certainly wanted a shower. “It isn’t even a ballad,” she muttered darkly as she headed for her bathroom with her new toy.

***

Jareth let out a breath and grinned. That was close, but in the end he was vindicated. He silently apologized to Byron but really, the poem sounded like it had been written for Sarah. With a flick of his wrist, the scrying crystal disappeared. He was a gentleman after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We own nothing. Labyrinth belongs to whoever owns the rights and in a moral sense to Jim Henson's heirs and Brian Froud and all those who contributed creatively to the film and associated works. Lord Byron is credited with writing the Ballad of the Bulge...also known as She Walks in Beauty. We couldn't write anything like that, he was a genius.


End file.
